


Like the Lilies of the Field

by knotted_rose



Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: BDSM, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-11
Updated: 2011-03-11
Packaged: 2017-10-16 21:19:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/169455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knotted_rose/pseuds/knotted_rose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Warrick's POV. Some things don't take care of themselves. This story was inspired by an exchange between Gil and Warrick in the first episode of season 3, "Revenge is Best Served Cold."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Like the Lilies of the Fields

**Author's Note:**

> No real spoilers. Extremely mild passing mention of BDSM. Originally posted to my LJ 28 January 2005.

From "Revenge is Best Served Cold" - inspired by this statement by Grissom:

 _"Well ... poker's not a game of interaction. It's a game of observation. I used to study people. And then I guess I, uh ... got bored. Now I study evidence."_

#

I couldn't believe what I saw when it happened. I just plastered on my own game face, made sure all my tells were well hidden, and continued the conversation.

But Grissom had just lied to me. Instead of looking straight at me when he told me that he used to study people--until he got bored--his gaze slid to the left. A tell as bright as the ever-opening blossom of the Flamingo that he was lying.

He hadn't gotten bored with studying people.

He'd been hurt.

And I was going to find out by whom.

 

#

I hadn't meant to tell Nick.

 

He'd just been going on and fucking on about some cousin of his whose life had gone from shitty to worse and who'd started swearing that she was never going to trust men again and Nick saying that of course she would, cause if she didn't she was awfully stupid.

It felt to me like he was calling Grissom stupid. Now, the man may be socially inept on occasion, hell, even clueless, but he was far from stupid.

So I tore into Nick, telling him that maybe sometimes you got hurt so bad you couldn't come out of your shell. Liked shocked in the balls with a cattle prod bad. So bad that you couldn't feel safe, couldn't ever trust again.

And Nick kept talking shit about how that was just stupid, how you had to just give people another chance. He's the eternal optimist, you know? So I told him it wasn't always an option and he demanded an example.

I don't know why I told him about Grissom--might have been because we'd switched from beer to whisky a while earlier. Might have been because sometimes that boy needed some growing up. But I told him about Grissom's lie, and how I'd started watching and the things I'd noticed, other indications that it wasn't always Grissom lacking social graces as much as he locked down his emotions tighter than a nervous virgin's ass.

Of course, the first thing Nick did was put the old white hat on. Saying that we had to help him. That we owed it to him.

I'd already planned on helping Gris, on finding out who had done this to him. Maybe enacting a little revenge--I still knew plenty of people who owed me.

Nick was all over that. I mean, I know from vicious, but mix it with an overactive, good ol' boy imagination who'd spent a few years hazing plebs at a frat house, and damn. Fucking lethal.

He wanted to do something more though. Help Gris out of his shell. Set him up or something.

I told him that a pity fuck wouldn't help. Would probably hurt. He just got quiet, then started talking about this other cousin and his bum knee and how Nick had proved that a tincture that his great-grand something or another had invented was actually helping it by relieving the endemic swelling.

I knew he hadn't forgotten. Wouldn't forget. But I wasn't sure where he'd go with the information.

#

I was seated at the table in the break room, not looking at the scores of the games from the weekend, when Nick came in for fresh coffee. No one else was there, so he walked over, leaned against the table next to me, and asked in a low voice, "How's the search going?"

Didn't take a brain surgeon to know what Nick was talking about.

"Still looking." And I was. Trying to find out who Gil had been hustling. Where he'd played. What back rooms still remembered him.

At first, it had felt like I was invading Gil's privacy. Somewhere along the line, though, it had changed. I was looking out for him, watching his back, whether he knew it or not.

Along about that time I stopped calling him Grissom in my head.

Nick checked in on my progress every two or three days. I don't know why it didn't piss me off, but it didn't. It was like a case where I was lead investigator. He wasn't checking up on me--it was obvious that he trusted me to do the job. And for once, he wasn't competing with me. He was, I don't know, supporting me maybe.

"So, are you thinking it was a he? Or a she?"

There was no way in hell that a white boy from Texas was asking me that kind of question. Or that he was going to get a straight, or even slightly bent, answer. I'd learned that Gil played both sides of the field, could be a goddamn predator when he felt like it. But there were also times when Gil could miss a pass by thirty yards, even if the person was standing right in front of him, while Nick generally walked around as if he had fucking blinders on, as well as special glasses that only let him see what ever the hell he wanted to see.

"It's Grissom, man. What do you think?" I told him.

"Just keeping an open mind."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"The man isn't asexual. He looks. A lot."

Uh-uh. This was not going where ever Nick thought it was going.

"Why, you seen him checking you out?"

Nick leaned right down into my personal space then. Got as close as he could and still have skin not touching skin. Close enough to feel his breath, a slow wash of warmth pooling on my neck, cooling, then pooling again. I didn't know what his game was, but I stayed still while the heat spread across my skin, down to my gut, and up my dick.

"Not just me, dude."

Though the words were whispered, they still vibrated against my skin, sending ripples down my chest. My fucking nipples even peaked up.

"You interested?" I whispered back.

I didn't know if I was asking for Grissom--or myself.

"Are you?" was all the reply I got.

There was no way in hell that I was going to answer that either.

Then he licked me. Just a touch of his tongue, barely a taste, just below the ear. So fast I could probably have talked myself into believing that I'd imagined it.

But Nick's smug expression as he slid off the table and slinked toward the door, well, I couldn't just ignore that.

"What the fuck you doing?"

Nick just raised his coffee cup to me, smirked, and said in a challenging tone, "Game on, bro." Then he walked out.

"Game on" my ass.

While I was no longer a betting man, I wasn't about to back down from a challenge. And from where I was sitting, the echo of a gauntlet hitting the floor was still ringing, loud and clear.

#

So we began. I didn't let myself think about where it was going. Where Nick wanted to take this. And what the hell it had to do with Grissom.

Knew it was my turn next. Kept it cool. Didn't want him to know when I was making my move. Kept is simple as well. Didn't crowd him. Didn't say anything. Just waited until we were alone, then turned a simple pat on the back into a nice handful of ass.

Took two days for him to come back. He was handing me a file, stopped with his one hand raised, then brought the other up. He ran his palm all the way across my chest, from collarbone, across pecs and nipples, to my side, then trailed his fingers down the bare inside of my forearm, before bringing up my hand and gently placing the folder in it. My breathing shouldn't have hitched up from such a touch, but it did.

I waited for retaliation until our next staff meeting. Sat across the table from him and just stared. Gave him a good eye-fucking. Let my gaze heat up and wander from his lips to his eyes to his chest where I thought I saw his nipples already standing at attention and back again. Never seen a boy blush so. He wouldn't look at me afterward, and I'd wondered if I'd scared his white Texas ass off, if I'd pushed too hard, done too much in too public a place.

He found me the next day in the locker room. While I was taking my T-shirt off, and my arms were tangled up in the sleeves over my head, he came up behind me. Full body press, the sudden heat sending chills all over my skin. He brought his other hand around quickly, slipped it across my stomach. I couldn't help it. I gasped. After a slow caress, he raised his hand up and tweaked my left nipple.

Then he was gone, whistling as he walked out, air replacing where all that lovely skin had been, my dick harder than it had any right to be, practically aching after such little contact.

We spent almost a month at this, furtive touches and standing too close and hot breath on skin and looks that should have set off the smoke alarms. Nick played like a master though, turning the game on and off like it was some kind of goddamn switch. There were a hell of a lot of times when we were together just as friends, colleagues, like before. We went out a few times for food, both with and without the others, without touching, without the game. It took me a while to realize that we had this insulating layer already built up, a buffer between us and the sex that was going to happen soon if I had my say, and that the game wasn't going to melt it. That we could do this, have something outside of work, something more, without killing everything else.

It got me thinking that maybe Nick was a little bit smarter than he looked. Not that I'd ever tell him that.

He finally invited me over on a Saturday for football and some beer--a casual thing, no one listening to us would have guessed that anything other than the usual was going on. But I knew. We were going to run the game to completion.

About fucking time.

Nick didn't even pretend when I got there. Grabbed the six-pack I handed him and dropped in on a table just inside the front door. Grabbed my shirt with his other hand and started searching for my tonsils with his tongue. Shoved me back against the door and covered me from head to toe in hot, bucking Texan.

It was just about the best way ever to be welcomed into someone's home, you know?

I finally had my hands full of that sweet ass of his, pulling him closer, pushing up against him as well. I'd imagined this, beaten off to it, more than once. The pair of us, up against a wall, or laying together on a couch, or under a hot shower, or maybe even making it to a bed, just rubbing up against one another, finding that groove and figuring out how we fit together, learning once again how much better it could be with two dicks instead of one.

The reality was just as hot as my dreams, with Nick moaning through his kisses and all that muscle pressed up against me, even though there wasn't enough friction through these damn clothes. I wanted to say something, but I couldn't pull back enough to separate--there was no place for me to go. Nick wasn't pulling back either. He kept diving down after me, lips demanding and teeth clicking and that good burn along my jaw from his stubble. His hands gripped my hips and ran down my flanks and back again, fingers searing a trail through my jeans.

Nick seemed to finally catch the same idea I had--less clothes equaled more skin equaled an even better time. He pinned my hips with his hands and pushed himself back, staring at me with eyes grown black with lust and need.

"Bed. Now," he growled at me.

While I tend to top whoever I'm with, my dick seemed to like caveman-Nicky. A lot.

Didn't mean I wasn't going to give it up that easily though. It was time for some payback.

I grabbed the bottom of his shirt and tugged it up, waiting until his arms were above his head and tangled in it, then I latched onto a nipple and started pushing us backwards. Nick struggled to shuck off his shirt but still walked with me as I got us both aimed in the direction of a nice, comfortable, horizontal surface.

When Nick got his hands free and reached down to pull my face back up toward his, I let my hands drift up as well, purposefully trying for the lightest touch possible. I grinned when he squeaked and pulled away from me.

He was ticklish. And he was going down.

My shirt landed on the floor before he could start any kind of retaliation. Then we both landed on the bed, half naked and laughing, Nick calling me a bastard and me just telling him that he loved it.

And I think he did. That we were running the gambit, from friend to competitor to lover and back through all the stages in between in the time it took to walk a few steps.

Truth be told--I loved it too.

It took some more wrestling before I managed to get to the full monty. And while I have nothing to be ashamed of in the equipment department, neither does Nick. I just lay there on my side in the dry coolness of the afternoon, the covers pushed off onto the floor and the quiet ticking of a clock over his tallboy dresser when Nick finally stood up to shuck off his pants. Then he turned back towards me, lightly stroking himself, and all I could think of was how beautiful he was.

Course that moment only lasted about two seconds. Then it was time to get back to business.

He dove back onto the bed but I was ready for him, got my legs around his and rolled us so I was on top. He only struggled for a short while--I employed every dirty trick I knew, pressing down on him, rubbing against him, tweaking his nipples with one hand while holding his head still with the other and kissing the brains out of him. Eventually he got with the program, grabbed my ass, pulled, and we started moving against each other.

 _Frottage_ is the fancy French word for it--but that's not what we were doing. We were rutting. Hard and fast.

Nick came first. I'd thought he was beautiful before, but damn. He threw his head back and squeezed his eyes tight and his fingers dug into my butt and all the muscles in his chest seized up and he uttered something between a shout and a groan as a slick warmth coated my stomach. It only took me a few more thrusts against that overheated and slippery surface before I followed him over the edge, my vision going white, then black, then muzzy and dim.

I hadn't realized I'd collapsed on Nick until I came back up to the surface and found him pressing soft kisses along my jaw line.

I nearly groaned when I pushed myself up. There had been far too many short nights and not nearly enough play recently. "Too heavy for you?"

"Naw. I'm a big boy. I can handle it," he said with a lazy smile and a slight tug. I collapsed again, this time purposefully hard, pleased with the whoosh of air I forced him.

"On second thought . . . "

"You having second thoughts?" It was a stupid question, worthy of a teenage kid, not a grown man. I should know better than to open my mouth after I come. Whatever filter generally lies between my mouth and my brain seems to disintegrate during sex. At least I managed to keep my tone light, trying to be cool with whatever answer Nick gave. I pushed myself back up so I could see him, look again at his dark eyes this close, hoping it wasn't for the last time.

Nick gave me a huge grin, the kind that always seemed to light up whatever room he was in. "Not one. Glad you're here. You?"

"Oh yeah. Even if it appears I'm sleeping in the wet spot right now," I replied, grinning myself as a great relief loosened my chest. I rolled my hips once for emphasis. It was too soon for either of us to be too interested, but I also knew it wouldn't take that long. Again, too many nights with only one-handed relief.

"Hey--you're sleeping on the wet spot right now. Which appears to be me."

I chuckled and rolled to the side, bringing Nick with me. With one hand I stroked his cheek. I grabbed his hand with the other, tangled our fingers together.

"So . . . " I started. What the hell did I say now? What did we do from here?

But Nick was already right there, ready for me. "Think the game's started?"

"Maybe the pre-game."

"Come on," he said, sitting up but still holding my hand. "Let's get cleaned up and go see."

Cleaning up was a little different with Nick there to wash my back. Wouldn't let him touch the hair though. Did let him push me against the wall, wrap a slick hand around both our cocks, and jerk us both off, slowly, while exchanging hot kisses and hotter looks under the cooling water. I knew that the next time he was showering at the lab I was going to remind him of this.

The game was still on, no longer pre-season, but the real show.

#

It was a couple of weeks before Nick put all the pieces together for me. I still think he was kind of hoping I'd work it out for myself, because Nick and I didn't do that much talking. I mean, we're guys, you know?

The afternoon had started well--Nick and I, watching the game, goofing around and giving each other shit and pushing at each other until I ended up jerking Nick off and Nick blew me.

Of course, then I had to open my big mouth.

"Nice end game, Nicky."

I didn't expect him to go completely cold. I don't know where that Texas boy learned to freeze a body with just a glance, but he had a glare that could put even my Grams to shame.

Now, I like talking about relationship shit as much as the next guy, which is, not at all. But I had to fix this, if I could. After another hour or so of the original iceman sitting next to me, I finally had to ask, "What the hell's the matter with you?"

Smooth move Brown. All that earned me was another glare, and if possible, the temperature dropped another ten degrees.

I think I held out for another five minutes, max. "What the fuck did I say?" I asked after I couldn't stand it any more. "Look man, I'm sorry, for what ever it was. I didn't mean to fuck up the game."

That finally got me a response.

"Is that all this is to you? A game?"

"What the hell am I supposed to think it is, Nick?" Now I was getting pissed off. It wasn't as if we'd ever talked about it.

"You _know_ me, man. You know I don't fuck around."

That brought me up short.

Nick, like me, was a champion first-dater. We'd never compared scores, but I'm sure, that like me, his number of first dates would have reached the hundreds. Maybe even the thousands.

But, unlike me, a first date with him didn't equal sex. Nor did a second. Nick was very choosey about who he slept with, particularly after that hooker. He was a true ladies' man, a man who appreciated the female form, went out a lot, and treated women with respect.

Yet here we were, sleeping together on a regular basis--at least as regularly as our schedules allowed. Which meant that this was more than a game to Nick. This was something serious.

Did I want something serious with Nick? With exclusivity and all the binding ties that went with that kind of thing?

I guess I was too quiet for too long, because Nick got up off the couch with a quiet, "Just forget about it." He started clearing beer bottles off the low table in front of the couch.

"Hang on here, man."

That got me a look, but Nick didn't stop picking up bottles, then carrying them out to the trash in the kitchen.

"Would you just come out here and sit down a minute?"

Nick came back out and with a huff, sat down on the far end of the couch, landing as far away from me as he could. Drama queen I thought, though I didn't say it out loud.

"Look, I'm sorry. I just didn't think things through, you know?"

"And now that you have, you don't want it. Fine." Nick made as if to get up again.

I didn't know I could move so quickly, but I managed to shoot across the couch and grab Nick's arm before he could escape.

"I didn't _say_ that. Just give me a chance, will you? It's a lot to think about."

Nick was trembling. I pulled him toward me, hooked an arm around him, got him to put his head on my shoulder. He wasn't resisting me, but he moved stiffly, as if all that ice he'd been showing before hadn't yet melted.

"Nick . . . " I sighed. Started again. "I'm not good with relationships. They always seem to, I don't know, burn out. Lose that spark. You know?"

To my surprise, Nick nodded, and placed his hand on my thigh, fingers tracing the inside seam. "I know. But that's why, ah shit." Nick started chuckling quietly.

"That's why what?" I asked, suddenly happy as Nick relaxed more and swung one leg over mine. We didn't cuddle much--Nick liked to more than I did. But right now, holding him, knowing that I hadn't completely fucked us up, was like winning the biggest jackpot known to Vegas.

"I don't know why I thought I was so good at this relationship stuff. Cause while I have plans, and I've thought all this through, I don't think I ever bothered to share any of it."

After another quiet, self-deprecating chuckle, Nick looked up and kissed me, soft and so sweet it was like condensed honey pouring through my soul.

"How did all this start?" he asked, his hand waving between me and him.

"With Gil. And Ted." I'd finally found out who'd hurt Gil so much, who had taken the heart freely given to him then shred it, stomped on it, kicked it around some more before finally burning it.

Fortunately for him, he was already dead. But he'd used Gil in every way possible, not just his body but his mind, using Gil's knowledge to obscure evidence at his crime scenes. The man had been brilliant, Gil's intellectual equal. So Gil hadn't seen it, hadn't known about any of Ted's extracurricular activities, until too late.

"And what happened next?"

"You started this," I said, using the same waving motion between us that he had. I still didn't know what to call it, this thing between us. We were still going to need to talk about it.

"Why?"

"Hell if I know man." Before he could object I drew his lips back to mine for another syrup-slow kiss. "I'm just glad you did," I said as I pulled back.

Nick seemed stuck for words for a moment. I made to kiss him again, but he put a hand on my chest and pushed back before I could.

"Warrick--you like Gil, right?"

I nodded. "Yeap. He's a good man. Gave me a chance when everyone else had turned their back on me. Hell, gave me more than one chance."

"And a regular relationship, between two people, has never been enough for you either, right?"

"You got it." Sooner or later, I'd always start looking. I figured it was part of the gambler's high, always searching for the next big score. Just how I was wired.

"So, you like Gil, I like Gil, and we both agree that he needs to be in some kind of a relationship, and since the two of us probably aren't going to be enough for each other . . . "

He trailed off. And I didn't have a damn thing to say.

Nick. Gil. And me.

"You're serious."

"As a heart attack."

" _Damn._ Nicholas Stokes, you are one kinky bastard." He let me kiss him again then, encouraged the heat to come back in. While I knew Nick would let me make up my own mind, I also knew he wasn't above trying to influence my decision with more blow jobs.

"Think about it," he said, his voice whisky smooth and sex rough. "Always a variety. Sometimes me, sometimes Gil, sometimes both. Two men sandwiching you in, exploring . . . " He kissed along my neck, suckling skin, his hands starting to map out my chest, grazing nipples and ribs. "Me behind you, fucking that fine ass of yours while Gil sucks you off, using all that skill he's sure to have . . . "

I groaned, the images filling my head. Nick on his hands and knees, taking it from both of us. Being manhandled by two men, wrestling for control and being forced to give in, in the best possible way. Serious arguments about everything from the perfect starting lineup to the latest baseball strike to whether fat-free milk was actually milk or just white water. Spending time with Gil, alone, over chess or talking music. Still shooting the shit with Nick.

When Nick let go of my mouth long enough for me to talk again, I asked, "So how do you plan on bringing him into this?" I still didn't know what to call it, but I was starting to think I could get behind something long term.

"What, you doubting my skills?"

"I'm just saying, Gil's going to be a tough nut to crack open. He was hurt so badly, used."

Nick just grinned. "Just you wait."

Then he went about convincing me that if Gil would let Nick demonstrate that talented mouth of his just once, Gil would be in, hook, line and sinker.

#

The next few weeks were, well, interesting. As in the Chinese curse form of the word. I knew Nick was interested in me, that Nick was willing to go for broke when it came to us. But it was hard at first to see him working on Gil. To see Gil not notice, or outright reject him, then have Nick turn to me all desperate and shaking with need and then not to feel used. We had some fights then, some real doozies. But it kind of cleared the air, forced us to talk, to declare that we had feelings for each other without sounding like some cheap romance novel.

And the makeup sex was pretty phenomenal.

It took a while for Gil to start coming around. Nick was playing the game like before, like he had with me, hot and cold around Gil, letting him see that there was both, that he could have both, have it all. I played a little too, but I don't think Gil saw. He was so fixated on Nick. And yeah, that's what some of the arguments came down to, that Gil only wanted Nick and not me as well.

Nick accused me of being insecure and blind, then spent the next three days pointing out every time Gil looked at me like that.

It became the catch phrase between us--"Like that."

Nick pouring Gil's coffee for him, then asking in that sex-twang voice of his, "Sugar? Cream?" No one should be able to put that much innuendo into two words, but he could. Standing too close to Gil at a crime scene, looking over his shoulder at the note pad he held, hands hidden and surely busy. Ants in amber honey appearing in the break room, the sly smile that Gil indulged in when he saw them and didn't realize anyone was looking. Nick insisting on feeding one of the golden treats to Gil, then sucking at and licking his fingers afterwards.

Yeah. Like that.

We both spent more time outside of work with Gil, the pair of us going to hear trios that I liked while Nick and Gil went to some spring-training camp games.

The end came sooner than either Nick or I were planning.

We'd invited Gil over to watch a game. It hadn't taken too much snooping to find Gil's preferred brand of scotch. Nick had also discovered some sipping tequila that he liked. We hadn't planned on getting so drunk together, it just seemed to happen, Gil in the middle, me on the left, Nick on the right. Sometime during the second half, we'd started a drinking game, that by the end of the game had degenerated into some kind of twisted relationship "Truth-or-Dare"--except that we were always taking truth.

Nick had told of losing a bet and having to strip while standing on the bar at Oil Can Harry's, one of the gay bars in town. I'd talked about my disastrous run with the male flight attendant who'd had a foot-fetish and how cranberry-orange was not a color a black man should wear on his toes. Gil had admitted to a pretty scandalous three way with a set of twins, only slipping on the pronouns once toward the end of the story, which let us know that they hadn't both been women. Now, it was Nick's turn again.

"Come on Gil, ask me about anything," Nick had challenged. "Anything at all."

Gil turned to him and said, "That wouldn't be wise."

"You know you want to," I added, challenging.

Gil nodded for a second, quiet. Then he asked in a mild and deceptively calm voice, "Why are you making passes at me when you're already involved with Warrick?"

Damn, but that man could cut through the bullshit sometimes. And how had he known? We'd kept it quiet at work, even with the game and all.

"We're interested in you," Nick replied, just as honest, turning now to face Gil, stretching out his arm and letting his hand rest along the back of the couch. If he moved just a little, he could touch Gil. I know he wanted to, was itching to, just as I was. Wanted to grasp and hold and stroke and taste--Nick had pointed out to me how Gil always smelled of himself, something warm and tangy, like oranges plucked fresh from a tree. I'd longed for a taste, any kind of taste, since then.

"Why? Am I some kind of project?" Gil asked, a rasp of anger rising.

"Do you think we're interested in a pity fuck?" Nick shot back. I wasn't sure if that was the right tactic--I didn't want to make Gil any more pissed off than he already sounded. Yet, we'd both learned it was the only way to handle Gil. You had to stand up for yourself, or he'd bulldoze over you.

"But . . . why?" And now Gil sounded lost, probably looked lost, too, if the sad expression on Nick's face was anything to go by. But Nick kept his tone light and replied, "You know the sexiest part of a body is the brain, right?"

I scooted up a little closer to Gil's back, not close enough to touch, but close enough that he'd know I was there too.

"And you're super endowed in that department," I added, using a rough whisper, bending toward his ear.

Gil put a hand on my leg, stopping me from coming closer. That he'd touched me at all surprised me, because he was still facing Nick, watching Nick.

"While I appreciate the offer, I have preferences, peculiarities, that you might find distasteful."

I'd learned about some of Gil's preferences while I'd been searching for Ted. I'd told Nick about them, a bit worried. When he'd asked to be tied up the next morning, I'd thought he was joking. We didn't end up using anything, just self-restraint. I made Nick hold his arms above his head, didn't let him touch me when I went at him, knees up to his ears while I pounded into him and his eyes just about ate me alive, kiln-hot desire reshaping my bones. It was a bigger turn on than I'd wanted to admit, having that much power, that much control.

Then when we'd turned it around, when I learned that I _did_ trust Nick that much, well, there was no going back after that.

"Games are good and fine, Gil. Role playing's always fun." Inch by inch Nick moved his hand from the back of the couch toward Gil, touching down with a fingertip, then two, sweeping the softest circles on Gil's shoulder.

"I don't want just an inning," Gil stated, finally turning to look at me, blue eyes gazing at me intently.

"Long haul, man," I replied.

"All the way," Nick affirmed.

Gil searched my face for another moment. I suddenly figured out why he'd been watching Nick during this--that boy couldn't bluff to save his skin. And while Gil probably knew all my tells, he'd needed to be certain.

With a little nod, he said, "Okay."

"Okay?" Nick asked, a little incredulous.

I couldn't reply, as Gil had suddenly closed on me, kissing me with a firmness and power I hadn't expected. I mean, I knew that the man had some experience, but not recently. Guess he hadn't forgotten anything though, the way his mouth possessed mine, the way his tongue demanded entrance, the way my insides just seemed to melt and my bones liquefied.

There were three hands on me, one on my hip stroking along the top of my thigh, another holding my head still, locking me in place, and a third just gripping my bicep, grounding me and holding me together as the onslaught of Gil Grissom with his heat on washed over me.

I was panting like I'd just been chasing the scent dogs for a mile before he finally pulled back.

With a cryptic, "Yes," Gil turned away from me and applied the same treatment to Nick. Now, I've never been much of a voyeur, always preferred to get my own shit on, but those two looked hot together. I grabbed one of Nick's hands and admired Gil's skill. I mean, he managed, with only a kiss and some mild groping, to make Nick start that low groaning which meant he had better be getting his end away soon or else.

Nick had a definite dazed look in his eye when Gil pulled away. I wasn't going to give him shit about it though--I imagined I'd probably had the same look just a few moments before. But Nick still had more coordination than I gave him credit for. He wrenched off his shirt and pulled Gil down to his chest, gasping when Gil attached himself to a nipple, then pulled at me until we were kissing.

It was--weird. Tasting Gil on Nick's lips, that warm tang that so well complimented Nick's own inherent sweetness. But I wasn't about to stop and complain, particularly when whatever Gil was doing to Nick was making him desperate, needy--just opening all the way up, moaning while I tongue-fucked his mouth.

When I pulled back I found that Gil had already unbuttoned and unzipped Nick and was stroking his cock with long, slow strokes. Nick was moaning just about non-stop now.

"You like this, don't you," I purred in Nick's ear. I moved around until I was on my knees next to Nick's head, giving Gil more access as he started laying a blazing trail of kisses down Nick's chest. Besides, this put me in the best position to watch.

And I _really_ wanted to see Gil going down on Nick for the first time.

"All laid out like a treat," I said, nuzzling Nick's neck, but still looking down, my breath catching like Nick's did when Gil paused and traced ab muscles with his tongue. "Both of us eating at you, tasting you, wanting you." I nibbled on his shoulder, licking at the sweat already beading up. "Making you wait."

Gil chuckled at that and looked up, his pupils dilated and his gaze hot. "God you're beautiful," he said. "Both of you."

Man deserved a reward for that, so I pulled Nick in for a kiss that was more teeth and tongue than lips. Nick was just too turned on for gentle.

And I got a reward for that as well--a genuine groan from Mr. Gil Grissom. I pulled back from Nick and settled in to watch, my hands playing with Nick's nipples while I kept at his neck.

Gil gave us another Cheshire-catlike smile, then he licked the head of Nick's cock. Nick bucked up, and Gil just laughed, an evil chuckling sound.

"Am I going to need to restrain you?" he asked, his voice dangerous and low.

I suddenly saw myself agreeing to all kinds of things, hell, practically anything that voice asked of me. Nick just gasped and shook his head. I could see the muscles in his stomach trembling as he worked to keep himself from not moving as Gil took him in again, his eyes fluttering and closing and his head falling back as Gil did something particularly wicked with his tongue.

It didn't take long, particularly between the pair of us, for Nick to find his release. He shouted as he came, his whole body seizing up. After Gil let Nick slip from his mouth he reached up for me and dragged me to him, kissing me long and deep, sharing Nick and himself equally. I was feeling kind of dazed afterwards, but I woke up quickly enough at the predatory look Gil gave me.

"Your turn," he said.

There was no way in hell I was going to survive this encounter, not with any semblance of cool. I backed up without thinking about it, only to run into the octopus also known as Nick Stokes, all hands and tongue.

"Relax baby," Nick said, drawing up my shirt, exposing me to the heat of Gil's gaze. Gil took off his own shirt, then undid his pants while Nick unbuttoned and unzipped me. I didn't seem to be able to move of my own volition anymore. I was caught, melted and sticky, shifting only when Nick poked at me, lifting my hips as Nick pushed down on my jeans and Gil pulled them off. Then Nick settled in behind me so my back was nestled against his chest, with him supporting me as well as teasing me with his hot breath along my neck.

"Gorgeous," Gil said as he looked at me. Nick grabbed my thighs and forced me to spread them, opened me more for Gil's devouring look.

I forced myself to look down along Gil's body. It was more muscled than I'd expected, with a peppering of silver and black hair spread across his chest. While his dick wasn't as long as either Nick's or mine, he was probably fatter than either of us.

And he was about to use that equipment on me.

I think I must have whimpered at that point, which got me a flurry of kisses from Nick as well as my very own Gil blanket, draped over me and warming me up, branding my skin with kisses of his own.

Nick kept working on my neck while he started massaging my shoulders, thumbs digging in to muscles that soon started to relax. Gil worked at getting me back into that space again, where I was floating on need and just wanting more without being able to think about it. He figured out pretty quickly that I liked it rougher than Nick did, and he added bites to his licks and kisses, sucking hard enough to leave marks on my side, just below my ribs, as well as in that crease between hip and thigh.

Then he moved further down, and I had personal experience with the wickedness of his tongue. I was babbling at that point, because both Gil and Nick had purposefully avoided my dick, and instead, Gil had moved down to start licking at my ass. I wanted, needed him to do something, anything.

I'd lost my cool big time, and I didn't fucking care.

When Gil speared me with his tongue, shoved into me after licking and teasing for what seemed like hours, I just shouted. Then shuddered. Then I lost what few brain cells that had still been functioning while he tongue fucked me and Nick twisted my nipples and attacked my neck and breathed heavily, sending goose bumps across my shoulders. I felt Nick hardening again against my back. I wanted to push against him, but I was too lost.

I have no idea where Gil got a condom and lube from. Had he been carrying them? Had Nick the octopus managed to grab some earlier? Were they both just being a bit hopeful?

Didn't matter. Particularly not when Gil was right the fuck there, pressing into me, telling me to breathe and bear down and how gorgeous I looked, strung out on need and wanting it so badly.

I was far beyond coherent at that point. I think I might have managed to groan meaningfully, but that was about it.

Instead, I breathed. I bore down. And slowly, so fucking slowly, I was filled.

Gil paused for a moment. I could feel him trembling as well. He was beautiful, eyes wide and wild, sweat dappling his skin and hair curling out of control. I surged up to kiss him, to tell him with lips and tongue and taste and touch that it was okay, that this was okay, that this was what I really wanted, needed. Then I turned and sloppily kissed Nick, pushed back against him.

And Gil started to move.

It took him maybe three thrusts before he found my prostrate, scraping across it with a skill and precision that I'd never known before. Fireworks kept going off behind my eyes. I tried to keep my hands on Gil, tried to find someway of grounding myself, fingers exploring that strong chest and twining in soft hair. I wasn't too successful, but I did manage to draw out a few groans from him.

Then Nick reached around, wrapped his fingers along my cock, and started jerking me off. I almost pushed his hands away. It was going to all be over too quickly.

But that was okay. Gil was at his limit as well.

"You going to come for me 'Rick?" he growled as he speeded up, ramming into me harder.

I grunted, then moaned, as Nick added that twist to his strokes, pressing hard against the bundle of nerves just beneath the rim of my cock.

"Let me see you. Let me watch. Please," Gil added.

That just about did it. I reached up and pulled him down again, kissing him as hard as I could, sharing breath and sweat and taste. Gil reached up and twisted a nipple, hard, and that tossed me right off the cliff. I could still feel Gil pounding into me, could still feel the faint pain from my teat radiating across my chest, could feel how hard Nick was, behind me, how little it would take for him to get off as well, could still hear Gil's little grunts and puffs, but it was all outside the long white ride I was taking, dazzled and shaken to my core.

I came back up just as Gil started his own ride, face open and vulnerable, tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth like he was solving some intricate puzzle.

I think I fell in love with him a little, seeing that.

Then Nick pulled away a little from me. I felt the knuckles of his hand rubbing up and down my back as he jerked himself off, spraying my skin with his warm and sticky come after just a short while.

It didn't take much to get Gil to lay his head down on my chest, to get Nick to squish himself back up against me, to gather sleepy, sated kisses from both of them, to tangle arms and legs and mingle happy, contented sighs.

I knew it wasn't always going to be like this, all fire and need. I knew there were going to be some fights ahead, major, nasty and deadly. But a tripod is the most stable form. We were in this, now, together, committed. It would work out, we would work out. Like the lilies of the field, we had no worries about anything else, long as we had each other.

(end)


	2. Boys Night Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys have a night out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nick's POV. Nick's POV. This story takes place after the events of Like the Lilies of the Field but I think it stands on its own - you don't need to have read that one to enjoy this one. This is mostly a PWP, but there is a smidgen of story as well. Takes place after the events of "Stalker" - possible spoilers for that ep.

I swear, those two are trying to kill me.

And not in the fun, "let's tie Nick up and see how many orgasms we can give him in one night" kind of way either. Though I must admit -- that was a good night. Man, I don't think I've ever come so many times in one go. Screamed myself hoarse, rubbed my wrists raw. Made Gil give me the next night off from work.

If Warrick could have blushed, he would have when he saw the marks. Gil, though, just got this goofy grin on his face, followed by this hungry look, like he wanted to lick my wrists and do it again.

But that's beside the point. The point is that they've come up with another scheme to get me to have "fun" and it just isn't in the same league.

See, my two lovers have decided that I don't get out of the house enough. Warrick even went so low as to say that Gil gets out more. At first I denied it, but it might be true. I'm a homebody. No reason to go out if you've got it all there under your own roof, know what I'm saying? And there are so many freaks and weirdoes and okay, stalkers, outside.

They still want to take me out. They just don't understand how dangerous it might be.

Me. Gil. Warrick.

Dancing.

Sounds like a recipe for disaster. But they keep telling me it will be fun. A boys night out.

#

After I finally agree, the next fight, of course, is about what we're going to wear. More specifically, what _I'm_ going to wear. I don't understand what's wrong with my wardrobe. So I happen to like chinos and polo shirts. And yeah, much of my wardrobe is a lot darker and looser than it used to be. So what? I don't feel like drawing attention to myself all the time. I also don't care what Warrick says -- it doesn't scream "gay white boy." If anything, it's preppy. And okay, so maybe that isn't the look that I should be going for when we're going out dancing at Oil Can Harry's, but I really don't care that much.

Warrick dresses in rough-boy chic; a sleeveless denim shirt unbuttoned to his navel, jeans with strategic tears in the knees, butt and hips, and some chunky silver bracelets and rings. Gil is wearing an ice-blue silk shirt and black pants. I tease him about looking like a conservative sugar-daddy. His only concession to our going out is a wicked pair of cowboy boots, black with metallic toes and silver stitching.

They eventually dictate that I should wear in a white muscle-T and my brown leather pants, the ones that lace up the sides. Now, I've only worn these outside the house once, and, well, I didn't necessarily start a riot, per se, but there was some fighting. I still don't believe that it was all because of me, but Warrick's pretty adamant that I always walk around with blinders on, particularly when it comes to other people looking at me with interest. If he really feels that way, though, why is he insisting on me wearing these tonight? I mean, isn't it like taking a red cape to a bull fight?

Still, Warrick and Gil assure me that between the pair of them they can take care of any trouble. I'm still not certain -- I feel like I'm on display. It makes me uncomfortable. I'm not interested in other people staring at me, drooling over me. I get enough of that from the pair of them.

Then Gil goes down on his knees and starts tracing the laces with his tongue. Which makes me happy that I'm wearing the pants, but raises my doubts about going out in them. I'd much rather stay at home and let Gil practice arpeggios with his tongue, know what I'm saying?

Warrick joins the game at that point, coming up behind me and doing a bit of bump and grind, promising to stick this close to me while we're there, teaching me how to dance through example, so I don't feel self-conscious. Gil, of course, offers to get me liquored up, proposing a different method to achieve the same goal. Between the pair of them they get me hot and bothered enough not to notice when we go through the door -- of the house that is, not the bedroom.

#

It's a Saturday night and there's a line to get in. Doesn't matter -- Warrick knows the bouncer and he talks our way past the rope without showing any skin. Well, anymore skin. And I don't think Gil had to growl at him more than once.

The heat and the noise are like a solid wall. The dance floor is a mass of bodies, a single moving cell. I'm not sure why we're here, or if we can squeeze in, but Gil seems to have other ideas. He pulls me down for a hard kiss, does the same to Warrick, then instructs us where to go. He's figured out a spot from which to watch us -- Gil is even less of a dancer than I am.

It takes some pushing to get to where Gil wants us. It isn't often that Gil directs us in public, at least, not in obvious ways. That he's decided to take charge, though, is cool with both of us.

Warrick keeps his promise and stays plastered to my back. His large hands wrap around my hips, fingers wriggling their way under the laces to brand my skin. He whispers encouragements in my ear, telling me to let go and let him take care of me and just move with the beat. It's harder than it looks, hard to get into it -- there are so many bodies pressing in against us, distracting me, getting into my personal space, making me nervous. I guess I really am a homebody. I'd much rather be doing this with Warrick in our living room, to some smoky slow song played by a band I've never heard of.

The heat finally starts to get to me, though, as well as the lack of air and Warrick's fine, fine cock riding the crack of my ass. He's just kissing and holding and rubbing me until finally I give in, close my eyes and tip my head back so it's resting against Warrick's shoulder and I'm letting him do everything for me. The night goes into that timeless place where I'm no longer bothered by the people around us, the flashing lights just bounce off me, and the beat from the music is like another heart pounding through my skin.

He moves us around, shuffles our feet together, sways us together with the music. I listen to him purr in my ear about how good I'm being. I'm still learning how to submit. It's something that Gil's been teaching both of us. It feels good to let go, even though it's a struggle. I trust Warrick, though, trust that he'll watch and be careful, trust that Gil will watch even closer. I also trust that when I do let go, the reward will be wonderful and worth it.

Then Warrick tells me that he's spotted Gil watching us. Our other lover is standing up near the entrance, on the stairs, drink in hand and eyes only on us. I can damn near feel the extra heat, the weight, of Gil's stare. It makes my muscles pliant, taffy-loose and honey-sweet. I put one arm up so I can wrap my fingers around the back of Warrick's neck, pull him closer so our cheeks can rub together, keep my eyes closed so Warrick can position us, put us on display, for Gil, and Gil alone.

Warrick eventually says something like, "Let's go." I nod and try to follow, still in that starlit place where my brain has stopped working and my worry muscles are non-existent. I can't quite believe how my lovers manage to get me here and make me so comfortable in my own skin without sex or alcohol, just with words of love, pride and protection. I don't think they'll ever understand how hard it was to learn to trust again after Nigel Crane.

Or maybe they do.

Then Gil is kissing me, possessing me, opening my mouth with his and coaxing me to pour my soul into him, for him to treasure and keep safe. He gives Warrick some of the same while I'm draped across his back, still not really aware of where we are or even caring, just glad that they're both there, real, alive, and full of love, warm under my hands, skin pulsing with need.

When I look up I realize that we're in a corner of the backroom. Normally, we don't go in for public displays, but maybe this is what Gil needs tonight, or Warrick. Or maybe it's for me, another lesson in trust.

Suddenly I'm wondering if that's the real reason for my lovers to get me out of the house.

Gil positions Warrick and I together in the corner, wrapped around each other.

"Let's play 'Simon says,' shall we?" he tells us. It's hard to hear him over the music, but we both nod. His mild tone makes me shiver, makes me warm and cold and I slip a little further down into that safe mindless space.

"Simon says, kiss. Not on the mouth."

Gil's commands have a way sending all my blood straight to my cock, as well as by passing all the thinking matter and interacting with the reptile mid-brain, you know? Where all I can do is long to kiss Warrick's mouth but I drag myself away from that and toward his neck while he's doing the same, angling for my earlobe while I work further down, licking and nibbling his collarbone and pressing my dick as hard as I can into the thigh he's thoughtfully placed between my legs.

"Simon says, stop."

With a groan I pull myself away. All I can taste is Warrick's musk, all I can hear are his panting breaths, all I can feel under my groping fingers is his sweating skin.

"Shirts off."

I hold myself still while Warrick unbuttons the last two buttons on his shirt and slips it off his shoulders.

"Ah-ah-ah. Simon didn't say."

I grin while Warrick just hangs his head. Gil comes up closer and reaches up to massage my neck with strong fingers, petting the back of my head. I don't do anything, don't reach out, don't try to touch. This is Gil's show, his game, and all I can do is wait, the fingers on my neck grounding me while at the same time stretching out my longing until I’m almost shaking with need.

"I think," Gil says after a pause, "that Nick should be rewarded for playing so well. And Warrick should have a forfeit."

I shiver but stay silent. Warrick puts his hands on his hips and looks up, smiling and chagrined, his eyes hot and heavy on me.

"Ah yes, Warrick." I can hear the grin in Gil's tone. "I think Nick needs a blowjob. And I think you're going to have to wait until we get home before you find your completion. Is that acceptable?"

My mouth goes dry. I don't think words could form even if it was the only way to put away a child rapist. I manage a nod. Warrick nods as well.

But as Gil steps away and Warrick's reaching for me, the noise around us suddenly slams into my skin.

Catcalls.

I can't help but look. A crowd has gathered, a group of young wolves; some already have themselves out and are masturbating at the picture we present. Warrick looks too, but Gil doesn't flinch, doesn't even growl. He gently turns my face away, back toward Warrick.

"Kiss him," he directs. Warrick closes the distance between us without a pause and brings his lips down onto mine.

I hesitate. I can't help it. We're out here and everyone is looking and I don't feel right about this but Gil is there as well, petting and caressing me and telling me that it's okay.

And I try, I really do. But when Warrick pulls back I'm shaking and I can't get back in to the game. I feel ashamed -- my lovers want to play and I'm holding them back. I can feel a thousand eyes on me though, making my skin crawl. I'm having problems breathing. There are too many people here. I'm shivering with cold even though I know the club is overheated.

I'm determined to go through with this anyway. Gil and Warrick were proud of me earlier, and I hate disappointing them. I lean in for another kiss from Warrick, but Gil stops me.

"Let's go," he says.

I want to protest. I want to tell them that it's okay. All I can do is sigh in relief and say, "Thank you."

Gil turns without another word. He's in uber-protective mode at this point, growling and forcing a path through the gathered crowd for us. Warrick is draped around me again, covering my back. I close my eyes, let them guide me. I can feel tears welling up. I shouldn't still be so damn sensitive, but I can't help it.

At the car, Gil throws Warrick the keys and pulls me into the backseat. Normally, this kind of thing would get a comment from Warrick, generally along the lines of "Yes, Mas'ser, ya'll want some chitlins with yo fried chicken?" He doesn't say anything, though, and I have to wonder what he's seeing in my face. Gil, too, because he doesn't attack or try to get as naked as possible on the drive home. Instead, he just pulls me into his arms and holds me in a soft embrace, then kisses me with light, butterfly touches, warm and dry and sweeter than my mama's honey-yam pie.

I'm feeling kind of sheepish by the time we get home. It shouldn't have been that big a deal. Maybe it isn't too late. Maybe we should go back.

But Gil won't hear of it. Sends Warrick up ahead to open the door and pulls me in for the type of kiss I've been expecting all night, the kind that steals my breath and sets my heart racing and makes me start to shiver again, but in a good way.

By the time we get to the house Warrick already has the lights turned down and something sultry and Latin on the stereo. Gil hands me over to Warrick and gets himself something to drink, pulls out a chair from the breakfast bar and sets himself in it.

It's show time again, only this time it's going to be okay. Warrick is dancing with me, like he'd done before, leading me around the room to that slow beat, keeping his kisses gentle, making us both happy. This time when he turns us toward Gil I feel brave enough to open my eyes, see the hot gaze already on me, let Warrick position us. Warrick blatantly rolls his hips, making mine move in sync. The only reaction we get is Gil taking another sip of his drink, as if his throat's dry.

I'm starting to float away again when Gil speaks up. "Don't you owe Nick a blowjob, Warrick?" He sounds so cool, so collected. As if he'd just asked Warrick for an evidence bag. I rarely hear his voice grow harsh with need -- then again, he usually isn't the one begging.

And yet that calm voice raises the temperature in the room, turns on the heat like the sun through the clouds.

Warrick moves us so that Gil has a good view, then he goes down on his knees, at my side. I'm about to protest, ask him what the fuck he's doing, when I feel his tongue along the laces of my pants. He nips my side while he undoes the knots. With his teeth, he pulls the last bow out, a long slide that's too slow.

But I'm not the one in charge here.

He unstrings the laces partway down my thigh, using teeth, tongue and fingers. I'm not quite squirming. The way Warrick's breath skirts across the skin he's just wet casts webs of goose bumps all across my thighs, up my spine, down my dick.

After Warrick unlaces the other side he pauses for a moment, looking over his shoulder at Gil.

"Very good," Gil purrs.

Still putting on a show, Warrick unpeels the pants from the front and back, like flaps. I'm still mostly encased in strong leather, only able to open my legs so wide. Not as wide as I'd like, not wide enough so that I feel stable.

It's another lesson in trust. Warrick won't hurt me. Neither will Gil, at least, not in any way I don't like. And they won't let me hurt myself, won't let me fall.

After Warrick repositions us again, he looks up at me, licks his lips and grins. I grin back. He's got the devil in him sometimes, and it looks like I'm going to have quite a ride.

But it's never going to be as simple as that, and this is one of the reasons why we work so well. Why we're still together. Why it's never going to be the same old, same old. Why it's never going to get, well, boring.

Because Gil speaks up then. "Just the tip, Warrick."

And suddenly it's a whole new game. Warrick moves in slowly, just takes the head of my cock in his mouth, holds it lightly with covered teeth, and runs his tongue over and over the head, caressing it, teasing the slit. I force my hands on to my hips: it's the only way I can stop myself from reaching down and touching him.

"Very good," Gil says. "Now Warrick, you can touch him."

I swear Warrick's moving in slow motion as he brings his hands up. I can feel every inch of skin land on me, tip, then finger, then palm, as one hand slips around my bare hip to hold me steady. He gently reaches for my balls with his other hand, reverently touching them, moving them back and forth in their sack, then tugging on them, all the while he's just holding me in his mouth, warming and wetting just the tip.

I groan. I can't help it. It feels so good. We can do fast and furious, barely-getting-through-the-door sex. But this slow pace that Gil sets for us is also unbelievably good. Yet my lovers sometimes wonder why I don't want to leave the house. It isn't just for the sex. It's for this, too, when the world just shrinks down to the three of us and whatever we're doing is enough to cocoon us from everything.

"I'd like for you to lick him now, Warrick," Gil instructs.

Bastard. He knows how much this gets to me. Warrick switches between just the tip of his tongue, a single, sticky line down the back of my dick, and broad flat strokes, up and down. It's gentle and harsh and all the things in between. My knees are locked but my legs are starting to shake. I figure I'm the only one panting, but when I glance at Gil, his eyes seem a bit glazed.

Gil shakes himself, looks away from my gaze, and says, "Suck him." And Warrick goes to town. Pulls me into his mouth and hollows out his cheeks and sucks hard. I know I'm moaning full-time now. I always get vocal. The part of my body controlling my vocal chords tends to shut-off during sex. It's embarrassing as hell, but Warrick and Gil seem to dig it.

"How does it feel, Nicky? How does it feel to have that hot mouth on you?"

"G-g-good," is about all that I'm capable of at this point. Warrick tugs on my balls again, not letting me get any closer, which is both a good and a bad thing that I'm going to get him for later.

"Do you want Warrick to get one of his fingers wet? To slide it along side your cock in his mouth? To coat it with fluids so that he can fuck you with it? Would you like that? Would you like Warrick to fuck you with his finger? Make you see stars when he starts rubbing across your prostate? Would you like that?"

Oh god. Oh god. Oh god. He doesn't really expect an answer to that, does he? But now Warrick's slowing and stopping and noooooo. I nod my head.

"Don't move Warrick. Just wet your finger. Yes, like that."

I can feel the digit along my cock, scraping hot and tight and deliberately brushing against that sensitive spot just under the head of my dick and damn I'm going to kill him -- when I have a brain again.

"Back behind his balls now, yes, you can start sucking again. Are you sure you want this Nick?"

I manage to gulp some air into my lungs, knowing that it won't last long, the heat from the pair of them will force it away again soon enough. "Yes," I grind out. God I want this. I want Warrick. I want Gil. I want it all and everything and it's never enough, no matter what they give me, it's never enough.

Warrick enters me with a sharp push. I suck more air in, but it's not helping. The room is spinning slightly. I'm not going to fall over: I'm just thinking that gravity doesn't like me very much and has decided to lay hard on my shoulders for a while, you know?

But Gil seems to recognize what's going on because he's suddenly there behind me, his strong arms pulling me against his smooth, silk-covered chest, holding me up, grounding me.

As well as torturing me, of course. One hand is already pulling at my nipples while the other does insanely sensual things to my stomach. And he's hard, as hard as I am, as hard as Warrick is, and I can feel that heat riding my ass. And while Warrick's finger feels good, _is_ good, Gil would feel so much better. . . .

Gil still wants to direct though. "Swallow him down Warrick. Good boy. How does that feel Nick? Warrick's mouth all along your length? It's hot and wet and tight, isn't it? Are your balls starting to draw up toward your body? Are you getting chills up and down your spine?"

My head falls back onto Gil's shoulder. Gravity really isn't my friend. Neither is the AC; it seems to have conked out. Again. Or maybe it's as usual, as it seems to happen every time we have sex.

"And Warrick's finger. How does that feel Nick? Gliding in and out of your hot ass? And when he presses . . . "

 _Shit._ Warrick scrapes across my prostrate and I jerk and it's a good thing Gil's there because that one may have sent me to my knees -- "How does that feel? Does that feel good?"

"Good. So good." I can't believe how low and rough my voice sounds. How I'm able to speak at all is beyond me. Maybe it's just another thing Gil's conditioned in me.

Warrick presses against my prostate again and I can't help the shudder that wracks me. "Good boy," Gil whispers into my ear. "So helpless. But we'll take care of you. So good. Keep sucking Warrick."

One of Gil's hands has disappeared from my front. I can feel him between my legs, caressing Warrick's hand as he thrusts in and out of me. I want to spread my legs further, but I'm hobbled. I have to depend on them to keep me upright.

Even though Warrick's pressing into me again and all I'm seeing are stars, I can still hear Gil's zip, loud even with the music playing. Then his knuckles are pressing against me, rubbing me as he rubs himself. I know better than to tense with excitement, but I'm still having problems breathing.

"I think that knees would work best, don't you Warrick?"

How can that man sound so detached? I can hear a little rasp in his tone, a slight burr, but that's the only hint that we're doing anything other than sitting at the dinner table and he's just asked Warrick for the salt.

Slowly they slide me to my knees, and this is better. This is much better. I didn't realized how far away the ground was. Touching it now, I know that I'd been floating pretty far off of it.

It doesn't take much more positioning before Gil's slowly stretching me, filling me, then is solidly in me, completing me, and I don't want the feeling to ever stop. He's hoisted me back on my knees, letting me rest against him so Warrick still has access to my dick. I've never been more grateful for Gil's miraculous multi-tasking skills, how he's able to hold me while he slowly skewers me, over and over again, how he's telling me the dirtiest, nastiest things about how Warrick's mouth looks like around my dick and how I feel squeezing around him and how good I smell and taste. He's not quite directing us, but he's still holding the reins, still taking care of me, of both of us.

The end comes sooner than I expected. Gil tells me to let go, that it's all right, that he has me. Then his breathing starts hitching, the way it does just before he comes, and that's what sets me off. That somehow, even though I'd screwed up his night and his plans I still pleased him enough that he can't wait any more.

So I let go -- just let the lightning pool and crackle and fuse my spine before it comes crashing out my cock, and I'm coming and sparks are flying and I'm seeing white. Gil is coming too, thrusting soundly into me, forcing more lightning through my nerves, prolonging my orgasm until there's nothing left but to collapse back against Gil and pant some more.

That is, until Warrick pokes me. Hard.

"Gil?" I whisper.

With a grunt, he slides out and pushes me forward. I'm barely able to move -- my hands are weighted down with sleep and pleasure -- but I'm not going to leave my buddy in pain. Warrick comes up for a kiss, needy and demanding, and I let him, let him bring me back up, bring me back to life. I lay myself down and unzip him -- then I let him do all the work, fucking my mouth hard and fast until he's coming too, pouring into me, completing me as well.

After Warrick finishes, I realize that Gil's still touching me, holding my ankle, lazily caressing up and down the side of my leg. I have one hand on Warrick's belly, feeling his breath slow down, even out. When I force my head off the floor I see that Warrick and Gil are connected as well, fingers intertwined between them.

I feel like I need to say something. I'm not unhappy with how the night turned out, but maybe they were right. Maybe I do stay home too often, and not for the right reasons. Well, maybe Gil was right. I'm not ever going to tell Warrick that he was right, not unless he tickles it or wrestles it out of me and makes me cry "Uncle". But maybe I do need to get out more, on my own or with them. Maybe we should try another boys night out.

But not tonight. Now it's time for a group pile, some slow and gentle kissing, maybe a shower, and quite possibly some ice cream -- in bed, of course. Just because I'm willing to try to change some habits doesn't mean I need to change everything.

So we collect ourselves and get up slowly and undress and start to get ready for what comes next. I don't say anything, none of us do; it's hard to talk, even with them, sometimes. But I think it's okay. I think the words will come.

Or maybe I'll just take them dancing next week.

{end}


	3. How Sweetly the Night Bird Sings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gil takes and gives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place after the events of "Overload" - spoilers for that ep.
> 
> Heavy kink. This story has BDSM and toy play. If these are not your things, then don't bother reading any further.
> 
> Footnotes/attributions at end.

Warrick is like a night bird, singing sweetly in the throes of passion. He teases Nicky by describing how he looks, what he tastes like, how good he feels -- a litany of sense pictures. He does the same for me on occasion. It pleases me, although I may not always show it.

Then Nick and I get a little rougher with Warrick. We tune him to a new pitch, one with no words. Yet he's still singing; fluted sighs, hitching moans and whimpers that are finer than any poetry.

And he's so beautiful when he comes, eyes glazed and mouth miming lyrics, body tightened and clenching. Though I agree that "Rarely do great beauty and great virtue dwell together," [1] they do in Warrick. He's a good man, better than he realizes. He has faults, flaws, but "The absence of flaw in beauty is a flaw in itself." [2]

Nick could be likened to a bird as well, though he barely sings. I've speculated that part of his silence comes from growing up with so many siblings; never having his own space, so the need for quiet started very young. I wonder, though, if it's a lingering side-effect of his coming out so late. He's still very shy about it, more comfortable with the false "Lady's Man" image that he'd so carefully built for himself. Encouraging him to vocalize more has become a game, asking him questions when he's sexually engaged, forcing out words in that husky drawl of his.

But maybe he could be likened to a bird because of his plumage. I love the full body flush that he gives when he wants contact and is forced to ask for it. His silence may hide his need, but his body can't.

We may never know another person, never completely. Nick has secrets and hidden depths that I'm still pluming. He has more voices with which to sing, as does Warrick.

I'm grateful for what they've let me hear so far.

#

"'Problems are only opportunities in work clothes.'" [3]

For some reason, Sarah doesn't seem to appreciate my observation. I think it's appropriate, particularly since our vic is found wearing the uniform of a cop, though he's been identified as a well-known bank executive.

Cause of death isn't immediately apparent. When the tox screen comes back we find that he died of an insulin overdose. We'd already expected foul play -- these findings merely confirm it.

It isn't until later, as Nick and I are going through the victim's second, hidden residence, that we discover that he actually died wearing his "play" clothes. However, his choice of playmates were pre-pubescent boys, between the ages of eight and thirteen, that he'd lured away with the promise of going to the station then silenced with threats of police action against their families and themselves.

Nick doesn't quite go ballistic at the discovery of the "playroom," or the video tapes. Not that I would blame him if he had -- nothing sets any of us off so much as uncovering the abuse of children.

But later that night he flinches when I touch him, wears his boxers to bed, and his nightmares return.

It isn't enough to tell us what happened. It certainly isn't some kind of warrant or mandate for Warrick or I to go prying into Nick's past. We argue about it; Warrick really wants to find out what the hell happened to his boy and _do_ something about it. I tell him we can't, that it's completely inappropriate. Then he tells me of how discovering my past had been the impetus for bringing the three of us together.

Shock would be a mild way of describing my initial reaction. That anything, any part of _me,_ was enough to motivate them -- it's quite beyond my reckoning.

I always worry that someday they'll slip away from me, that all I'll have in my old age will be mere memories of them, that they will have moved on to greener, younger pastures.

Maybe I need to be less doubtful.

I still insist, though, that this, this time with Nick, is different. He already has us. We just need to be there for him, to trust him to tell us -- to sing -- when he's ready.

#

Of course, pursuing the killer is the hardest part of the case. We can't chose the victim, and this one was a bastard. His death won't be mourned, and probably saved countless additional boys from becoming victims. But it isn't our place to deny a voice to the one who was killed, even if he was the scum of the earth.

The killer turns out not to be one of the man's victims, but one of the boy's girlfriends. I do not understand the selfishness of people. The boy had decided to confront the man, was pressing charges, and she'd gotten jealous of the time and money he was spending. She didn't understand why he hadn't taken the cash settlement the man had offered.

Even though the attacker isn't as sympathetic as she could have been, it isn't enough. Nicky is still . . . off. So Warrick restarts what he refers to as "The Game" to get Nick back into the fold, and back into our bed, where he belongs.

"Games are a compromise between intimacy and keeping intimacy away." [4] I think Warrick and Nick need games to reconnect, to actually lead them to intimacy. Warrick knows to leave me out of it. While I appreciate the attention, I do not need the distraction. They don't try to include me unless they're looking for, well, I guess, _more,_ later on that evening. And besides, I've always favored a more direct approach.

It's a fascinating thing to watch, now that I'm officially included. How Warrick turns a simple pat on the back into a gentle ass grab, how he stares and smirks and makes Nick's blush bloom again and again. How eventually Nick starts to play back, making noises in the shower in the locker room when only Warrick and I can hear.

That's the night that Warrick proposes strip cribbage. After Nick agrees and heads back to Trace, I object -- cribbage is too long a game, it'll take hours before we end up being naked, and though I've only been without a naked Nick for five days, it's five days too long.

Then Warrick spells out the rest of the rules, how we'll be slamming shots of tequila with every "go."

I'm wary of the hangover that I'm certain will result from this evening. But Warrick asks me to trust him in this, and I know he's right. Nick needs talking more than stripping. It's too easy for all of us to hide behind our skin, even Nick.

#

At first, I think Warrick's plan isn't going to work. Nick laughs with us when he makes his first mistake adding his points together, but even Warrick can tell it's forced. It's a long six legs, Warrick prodding and poking at Nick, crowing about winning even when he's behind, claiming that he's just got us in his headlights and is planning on blinding us as he passes by.

When Warrick starts talking about learning to play cribbage from his Gram, I wonder if he notices the way Nick stiffens slightly. But after he prods my foot -- not too gently -- under the table, I tell of playing with my mother. I even go so far as to show them the Chinese finger-counting system, and how you can represent all the numbers from one to one hundred with a single hand.

I lose, of course. I'm too worried about Nick. Also, I suspect Warrick dealt the last two hands from the bottom of the deck, because even with his shortened attention span, Nick is still the winner. But before I can take off my shirt, Nick slams one, two more shots and stands up, swaying.

"She's not going to ruin this too," he says, fisting his hands, then opening them, looking like he wants to punch something as well as just let it go.

I don't remark when Nick flinches again at my touch. I direct Warrick to sit on the couch, then set Nick down, letting him use Warrick as a kind of pillow. I pull Nick's feet up into my lap and I start to rub them, using my thumbs and a lot of pressure, trying to get him to relax.

"I was nine," he starts, his voice cracked, broken, and raw.

All I can think at first is how startled I am. I didn't know that Nick possessed such a voice. It's harsh, rough, almost accentless. To be honest, I don't want to hear the things he has to say in this voice. I don't want such things to have happened to Nicky, _my_ Nicky.

However, I can't help but love this voice, this song. It's a part of Nick, and I love all of him, even this part. I know I'm not good at love, at feeling it or showing it, but I do try. I watch and listen and rub at the tension I can feel even in his soles. I don't move closer to him: I arranged us in this configuration on purpose, letting Nick be supported by his one lover while he makes his confession to me, the pseudo father-figure.

He cries as he talks, cries harder when he finishes. Both Warrick and I are struck inarticulate by his tears, as usual. We can only hold him and love him through hands and chaste kisses and sincere platitudes about taking care of him and making it all better. I get up and get a cold washcloth and tissues for him, then we both continue to comfort him as best we can.

When Nick subsides, he snuggles back into Warrick's embrace with eyes closed and I'm sitting again at the end of the couch. Nick has a headache, he's exhausted, and it's another night without sex, but that's okay. That he's come this far is amazing. We can build back to where we were, and hopefully go beyond, now. I know I'm a fool, trusting as Tennyson said, that somehow good will be the final of ill. [5] Yet, I trust on.

It's only then that I notice that one of Warrick's feet is now touching mine -- that even though we're both concerned about Nick, both working to soothe and calm him, we're still connected. It's still all of us, all _three_ of us, together, no matter what.

#

While Nick and Warrick, ah, reconnect in the shower the next day, I go through a week's worth of crossword puzzles, then cook breakfast, well, late lunch, for them. All we're looking forward to for the weekend is a couple of days of domesticity, getting back into the patterns and rituals of our life together, of shopping and eating and reading and lazing.

Later that evening Warrick goes to run some errands and to have dinner with his grandmother. I want to tell him he doesn't have to hurry back, Nick's doing better and better, falling more into himself, although he'd described himself earlier as still being fragile. I think Warrick gets the picture though, because he tells us not to wait up for him.

I try not to treat Nick any differently as we make dinner. Nick grills the steaks I'd been marinating all day while I chop, sauté and prepare the rest of our meal. I never thought to have such a home, a place where soul and heart alike can rest. The comfort buffers me from my work, which is strange, because for a long time I believed that I was my work, and that I couldn't be any good at it if there were a separation. I still fall into that trap sometimes, but luckily, I now have Warrick and Nick to remind me of life beyond death.

After we eat and clean up, I ask Nick what he wants to do for the evening. I know that I would like to reconnect, as Warrick has, but I still prefer for Nick to state a preference.

Unsurprisingly, he doesn't. Doesn't look me in the eye, just says, "Whatever." He knows that annoys me, but I let him have his way. Maybe I am still coddling him a little.

We end up on the couch, the TV tuned to some History channel special on cats and the Egyptians. Nick really is an inveterate snuggler, which I don't mind as much as Warrick seems to.

Except that while Nick's getting comfortable on top of me, he slips one hand under my shirt, then, after a bit, he starts stroking my ribs too lightly. It tickles.

"Stop it, Nicky," I tell him.

"Stop what?" he mumbles, not looking at me, eyes still glued to the program.

I press down on his hand to still the restless movement.

"Sorry," he says as he shifts a little.

After less than a minute, he starts again.

"Nick," I say again, more sharply than I should, I suppose. I grab his hand and wrap my fingers around his wrist.

"Sorry."

Am I imagining things, or is there some sort of amusement in his tone?

He wriggles around a bit. Then some more. I'm about to ask him if he needs something when I realize that he's managed to get his other hand down between the cushions and is starting to tickle my other side.

After a moment's struggle I get hold of both his wrists and tug them to my chest. Nick finally looks up, grinning, his eyes sparkling and mischievous. He wiggles a bit more, and now I can feel his cock, hard and ready, against my thigh.

So this is how he wants to play, eh?

I don't say anything, of course, merely kiss his fingertips, fold his hands under mine and place them safely on my chest, then turn my attention back to the screen, deliberately ignoring him. I'm curious to see how far he'll take this. He knows how to get to me, get me riled up. This sort of foreplay helps me determine where he actually wants to go.

Pretty far it seems, when he turns his head and after a bit of nuzzling, actually bites me. I jerk him up and off me, standing quickly and dragging him with me. Yet I have to be sure, even though he's staring at me with his pupils dilated and his breath coming quickly.

"What do you want?" I ask him. My lovers complain, now and again, at how mild my voice always seems to be, even in the throes of passion. They don't believe me when I tell them it's merely practice. They don't know my thoughts, how often I imagine the pair of them broken with need, strung out with want, and how I would have to care for them, how gentle and soothing I would have to be. They don't know how hard this scenario makes me, hard enough to fuck for hours, days.

"You," is all the response I get before he pushes himself forward for a kiss.

This, _this,_ is what I wanted. I don't let go of his wrists; I don't allow him to bring his hands up to touch me. I just kiss him, roughly, possessing his mouth as surely as I'm about to possess his body. When he tries for more contact I step back, still kissing him but this is my show now -- something Nick still struggles with sometimes.

I finish the kiss abruptly, though a part of me wants it to go on and on, to melt into the heat of Nicky, to just do him there, on the floor. But I don't believe that's what he wants, and what they say about bottoms really is true: much of the time it is all about them.

Luckily for my two lovers, I get off on that.

"Strip," I say as I let go of his hands. I know this is a turn-on for Nick, to be naked and vulnerable while I'm still clothed. His hands are clumsy and trembling.

"Slower," I instruct, bringing my own hands up to unbutton the first two buttons of his shirt, showing him the pace I want. I make him finish on his own. I only let my eyes touch his skin, travel over chest and stomach muscles, wander across dark curls and proudly erect cock, then back up long fingers and strong arms to eyes black and yearning. He's panting, and a fine sheen of sweat has already sprung up on his upper lip. I know what it will taste like, sweet and salty and like Nick, but I refrain. It isn't time yet.

For Nick, submission isn't about serving, humiliation or pain. It's about control and trust, letting go of everything and just doing what he's told. So to help him "get in the mood," as it were, to start him down the path toward sub-space, I make him go down on his hands and knees and crawl in front of me to the bedroom, back arched, ass swaying. This is not punishment: I don't criticize or make him do it more than once. Instead, I tell him how fine he looks, how much I want to fuck his ass, how good it's going to feel when I do, and how I'm going to make him wait for it until it's all he can think about, until I'm all that makes up his world.

I'm tempted to keep him in this position, to blindfold him and tie him to the headboard and take him from behind. But even though his eyes are glazed and drooping just from the short crawl, I don't think that's what he wants. I think he needs to see me, be with me.

Or maybe that's what I need this time.

So I opt for slow torture. I lay him on his back, put his hands above his head and tie them to the headboard, then I get out the lube and toys -- a lovely set of stainless-steel anal balls, each about one and a half inches in diameter, as well as the bolo-tie cock ring. Nick gives me such a sweet whimper when he sees them. I merely chuckle in response, something my lovers tell me is evil.

I tie up Nick's cock, then set about preparing him and filling him with the beads. He controls himself fairly well until the third one goes in. Then he starts to moan. The sound goes straight to my own dick, but I don't let it show.

"You're doing so good Nick," I tell him as I push another one in. "You're going to take everything, aren't you? I'm going to make you take it -- take the beads and then me, once, maybe twice. But you're going to be good for me, aren't you Nicky? So good. Just let me take care of you. Let me do this for you." He's groaning almost non-stop by the time I push the last one in. I tease him, tug on the string a little. I know the six balls make him feel full, but not complete: he wants me, not a toy. And I want him, want to be engulfed in the heat that teased my fingers as I added one ball after another. I don't need a cock ring for myself, though I do briefly consider it. Nick is so beautiful, spread out like this on the bed, knees bent, flushed, panting. He doesn't understand what an incredible gift this is.

I start by sucking on his fingers, taking them deeply into my mouth and running my tongue over them, then nibbling and licking at the webbing between them. Nick's straining still, aching for more touch. I bite into his palm, then start licking his wrists, tasting leather, Nick and sweat -- a heady combination. I move slowly down his arm, my mouth the only point of contact between us, eventually stopping for a kiss, long, sweet and sloppy.

My pulse is racing by the time we finish and I find that I'm feeling brave enough for the words I can rarely say.

"I love you," I whisper against his lips. I bury my head against his neck, bite and suck while he's responding, then yank the first ball out. Nick yelps in surprise and continues his moaning as I play with the string. He's not lost, not yet -- there are still words lurking behind his lips -- but he will be.

While paying special attention to Nick's nipples I slowly pull out the second ball, making sure he feels how it opens him, how the ring of muscle of his ass irises to let it out. I get a low groan for my effort, such a beautiful burst of song.

By the time I make it to the inside of his knee I pull out the fourth ball. From the lovely purple color of Nick's cock, I'm sure he's ready to burst, and I want skin against my skin, not clothes.

I keep up a teasing pull on the string while I unbutton my shirt, watching Nick's eyes. He's barely there anymore. The sensation play -- the biting, licking, touching and talking -- has taken him down deep. After I slip my shirt off, I press hard against his perineum as I take out the next-to-the-last ball. Nick bucks against the restraints, no longer able to control himself. His harsh breathing gives a rhythmic background to our play.

"So, Nick," I say, tugging on the string while I open my pants. "Do you want me to put these back in? Then I can finish kissing, licking and biting every inch of your skin while I pull them out a second time. Or do you want something else Nick? Something more?" I stroke myself after I draw my pants and boxers down. "What do you want?"

Nick's mouth works while he tries to gather himself together. I let go of the string while I step out of my clothes, then pick it up again as I kneel on the bed between his legs.

"You know I don't like to guess," I mock scold him.

"Y-y-y-you," comes a stuttered reply.

"Good boy, such a good, good boy," I tell him. I kiss him then, wide and deep as I pull out the last ball, swallowing the groan that Nick gives with it.

"Now, while your ass is already nicely lubed up, I still need something." I tell him as I knee-walk up the bed. "Saliva isn't the best lubricant, but it will do in a pinch, don't you agree?" Nick can't answer, his mouth already full with my cock. I can't hold back a hiss as he takes me in further. He feels so good, so hot and wet. This isn't heaven, but it's so far beyond the mundane it feels sacred, somehow.

Nick tries gallantly to suck me, but he's pretty far out of it. Instead, I fuck his mouth gently, sliding in and out, letting his teeth scrape across me. Nick's closes his eyes and rocks his hips up and down in time with me, frustrated, I'm sure, by the lack of contact his dick's had tonight.

It takes all my willpower to pull all the way out. My moan echoes his as I do, the air suddenly chilling my dick. I position myself back between his legs and instruct Nick to look at me.

I fall into his eyes as I push into him, become one with him.

"Nothing can pierce the Soul as the uttermost sigh of the body." [6] Even as I penetrate Nick his song enters me, wraps my bones with his contentment, sets my heart to singing. I lean forward to share more -- more skin, more sweat, more breath and heated kisses. I lose myself in him as he loses himself in me, our grunts and cries mingling and straining together.

I reach that plateau where my mind is free and Nicky just seems to radiate, every drop of sweat like a glowing tear. But he doesn't have the stamina I do, so I let myself follow the light, streak a blazing trail across the stars and come shooting out the other end into soft dimness.

Nicky doesn't come, of course, mainly because I didn't want to waste his essence. I need something more of him as well.

As soon as I can move I slide down his body and take him into my mouth. He cries and whimpers -- such beautiful sounds -- he's so sensitive and desperate. I don't string him along for long, though I've been known to do this for hours, fucking and coming and denying my lovers then fucking again, tuning their bodies to massive, trembling need. I do push him a little higher, licking and nibbling before I swallow him and undo the cock ring.

Nick shouts as he comes, bucking up hard and long. I love the sea-sweet taste of him, the keening whine that he gives as I continue to hold him intimately in my mouth, the shudders that wrack him as he gives everything he has, everything he is, to me.

When he stills, I stop, unsurprised to find that he's passed out. Another gift on top of so many others. I release the restraints, rub and chafe his wrists, then curl around him so when he wakes he'll feel safe, warm, loved.

Treasured.

Not like a caged bird, but rather, a wild one, who deigns to join me at my window sometimes.

#

The next afternoon, Warrick and I set up the chess board in the living room. Chess is serious business for us, and we both roll our eyes at Nick's suggestion of "strip chess." However, after Nick leaves to go to some car show with Greg, Warrick suggests that we _could_ make the game more exciting.

"How is that possible?" I ask. "It's chess." Mental stimulation at its finest.

"You get to blow me when you lose."

I raise an eyebrow at his implication. Warrick's good, but he's not that good. "And when I win?"

"I'll blow you."

I don't pause to give Warrick time to add any conditions to his prize. "Agreed."

He looks at me suspiciously, probably wondering why I agreed so readily. I merely smile at him, projecting as much innocence as possible, even though this ploy never seems to work on my lovers.

"What did I just agree to?" he asks.

"A blow job," I tell him, with a grin. "Choose," I say, holding my hands out to him, a pawn in each. I have to keep him distracted or he might figure out the flaw in his plan, namely, that he didn't place a time limit on the blow job. He's forgotten how long I can hold him at the edge.

He picks white and goes first. Soon we're into the rhythm of the game. Worries of whether I'll win or lose the game don't distract me: either way, I'm going to win. However, Warrick hesitates more, makes a few mistakes, loses some pieces he shouldn't. It isn't until we're halfway through before he finally looks up at me and says, "Damn."

"Hmmm?"

"If I win, you're just going to leave me hanging on that cliff as long as you can, aren't you?"

"Possibly. Your move."

He takes his turn, then stares at me, considering while I examine the board. He knows it's too late to change the rules. He also knows that if he wins and I blow him, even if I make him wait the rest of the afternoon before I let him orgasm, it will still be spectacular. I'm certain, though, that isn't what he'd been thinking about when he proposed the challenge.

Surprisingly, we play to a draw. He's down to just his king, while I still have a pawn, my queen and my king.

"So," he says after a moment. "Two out of three?"

I nod. "We could do that. Or we could play by the numbers."

"Numbers?"

"Either assign an arbitrary numeric value to each piece captured and select the winner as the one with the most points. Or, we could just choose a number." I pause and watch his eyes narrow. "Like sixty-nine."

He laughs and shakes his head. "Damn. I like how you think." He stands and offers me a hand up, then pulls me close enough for a kiss.

Kissing Warrick is _different_ than kissing Nick. Not better, not worse -- comparing them is like comparing apples and orangutans. I still love doing it, kissing Warrick, kissing Nick.

Maybe even more than playing chess.

We slowly make our way to the bedroom, stopping to touch, kiss and taste, letting the heat build bit by bit. It still feels as urgent as always, but I want to take the time to worship Warrick properly. We're all still finding our feet again since Nick's implosion, and I'm grateful for this time to reconnect with Warrick as well.

Eventually we make it to skin, and end up laying side by side on the bed. I traverse Warrick's body with lips and tongue, delighting in the shifting planes and changing surfaces. I give the stiff curls that lead down to his cock extra attention, laving then blowing on them, watching the goose bumps chase across his skin. Of course I get soft, ticklish strokes up my sides for my efforts, a way of keeping us balanced.

I swing my hips up closer Warrick at his urging, then settle in for my treat. The first taste of him is always so good, more bitter than sweet, but with pepper and smoke. I hold him in place with my hands and lap at the head of his cock, long strokes with the flat of my tongue. He's doing the same to me, then switches when I do, from licking to drilling into the slit. I can't help the moan he teases from me. It all feels wonderful.

Greedy hunger spikes through me suddenly, and I'm desperate to taste all of him. Normally, I tease my lovers, make them wait. Not this time. I yank Warrick closer to me, licking down the length of his cock to his balls, nuzzling into them and pulling them into my mouth. Warrick doesn't follow my movement this time, instead just keeps sucking on my dick, bringing heaven closer to earth, making me pant around my mouthful.

I still want more.

I force his legs open, apart, and head further back. All the skin from behind his balls up toward his hole is soft and slick, puckered and salty. I play some with his perineum, pressing against it with fingers and tongue, while at the same time I keep one hand gently caressing his cock. I can just imagine the waves of heat coming off it as I slide my fingers up and down its silky length. And Warrick keeps rewarding my efforts, sending chills up my spine, trying to shatter my concentration by sucking on the head of my dick while slowly jerking me off with his hand, squeezing me just right.

Finally I get myself in position. Warrick's skin is lighter in color here and sensitive. I lick his pucker, then blow against it, fascinated by the way it flutters. Of course, Warrick's fingers start to travel at that point, tapping against my own ass. I want him in me, surrounding me, completing me.

I push myself forward, my rolled tongue leading, spearing Warrick. He stiffens and moans, and I start to thrust my tongue in and out as hard and fast as I can. He doesn't take too long to recover, though, and soon he has one, then two, fingers inside of me while still sucking and bringing the disparate parts of me back together, coalescing in my gut, sparking down my limbs.

When he presses against my prostate I moan, long and deep into him, getting an echoing groan in kind.

Neither of us are going to last long this way, which I think became the challenge at some point, to see how fast I could send Warrick off the cliff. I start pumping his dick more firmly with my hand, ending with that twist that he likes, that gives extra pressure to the bundle of nerves just below the head. He's starting to shake, trying so hard to hold himself together, singing with slurps and moans, while his fingers play like live wires across my skin.

The muscles in the thigh under my head clench until I think they're going to break. I feel my own body tightening in sympathy. Warrick abruptly removes his mouth from my dick and squeezes it tightly. I'm certain that he's too far gone to do anything but ride his own wave, but he thrusts a third finger into me as he comes.

The chain effect sets me off and I follow him into the breach, shouting with surprise as my orgasm crashes down on me.

Cleanup is slow and lazy, with satiated kisses and drooping fingers. Nick finds us curled up, napping together when he returns. I wake to find two warm bodies in the bed with me, and know that the world is found not just in a single grain of sand, but in three. [7]

#

The McAllen case takes four long days and somehow stretches out the hours so that it feels like it's been four weeks by the time it's over.

It turns out that the mother's death, Susan's, was accidental. The son, Keith, hadn't meant to kill her. However, after the accident, instead of reporting it, he tried to frame his abusive father.

All of us wanted to believe the evidence that Keith had planted -- who better to put into jail than a wife-beating, child-molesting monster?

But the father is innocent of her murder.

By the end of the case I want to scream. I'm disgusted with supporting a system that so spectacularly failed Keith, and is now going to fail him again. His father is insisting on the worst possible representation money can buy, and as he's a minor, there isn't much anyone can do. "There is no such thing as justice -- in or out of court." [8]

I head for the Stratosphere -- I don't like the jerkiness of the Manhattan Express. It's a Tuesday, and one of the operators who knows me still works there, so it isn't a problem to ride, then ride again, and again. The lights streak off the yellow cars, and the padding cushions my body as we go down the first hill and gravity slams back into me. I'm a little breathless by the fifth time through, but it isn't enough. So I go home.

Warrick and Nick are there, have been there for a while. Evidence of their popcorn fight is scattered all over the carpet and the couch they're still sprawled on. Beer bottles are scattered everywhere. Towels used for some kind of mop up job lay on the floor just beyond the end table.

"Hey Gil," Nick calls.

"Come join us!" Warrick says.

I just stand, unable to process what I'm seeing.

I want to strike out at them. I know I'm being irrational. How can I be angry that they're enjoying themselves? I still want to beat some sense into them, turn pink and white skin red and blistered, make dark bruises blossom on darker hide.

I will never touch them in real anger, though.

I don't hear the questions they're asking as they rise off the couch and slowly approach me, as if they're afraid I might skitter off.

And maybe that's exactly what I need to do.

Run away for a while.

"I, I need. . ." is all I manage to say. To my surprise I find that I, too, have a voice, a song. It's cracked and bleeding.

Luckily, my lovers understand what I need.

Warrick reaches me first. "Shhh," he says, taking my hands, kissing the tips, the palms. "It's okay, man."

"We got you," Nick adds, coming up from behind, pulling me in close for a hug, cradling me with his heat.

Warrick kisses me then, possessing my mouth, pushing me down and back against Nick. My first instinct is to struggle. I don't often let go -- I don't usually feel the need -- but sometimes, I have no choice. It's either let go of myself for a while, or lose everything that makes my life worth while.

I surrender to Warrick, let him take every bit of me, lose myself for a while in him and the smoky richness of his taste.

When I come back up I find that we're moving. Nick already has me half undressed and efficiently strips the rest of my clothes off. I stand before them, shivering and naked, waiting on their pleasure.

Warrick heads straight for the toy box, pulls out the under-the-mattress restraints, a blindfold and the Velcro cock ring.

I don't say a word, just let Nicky cover my mouth with sweet kisses while he covers my eyes with the blindfold. First one leather wrist cuff goes on, then the other. I must be shaking by now, because Nick keeps soothing me, kissing me, telling me that it's going to be okay, that they'll take care of me, take me out of my head for a while.

They lay me down on my back, my head pointing toward the foot of the bed and my arms spread wide, then they attach the ropes and run them under the foot of the mattress, stretching them tight until I can't move, can't even lift my shoulders.

They know that I hate this position. Spread-eagle this way, there's no place to hide. I feel too vulnerable.

It doesn't matter what I want right now. Or so I tell my greedy soul when I feel Nick's weight leave the bed. I hear the whisper of clothes sliding onto the floor followed by soft sighs and kisses. They're supposed to be focused on _me,_ damn it. Or if they're making out like that, they should at least let me see.

I try to strangle the needy moan that sneaks its way out of my throat, only to get a chuckle, an _evil_ chuckle, from Warrick for my effort.

"Think he's feeling left out?" Warrick asks.

"I don't know, man. His face is kind of turning red, though. Wonder what color it'll change to when I do this?"

Oh god. I don't have to hear the slurping noises that Nick's making, the hungry, suckling sound he generally starts when he takes Warrick's dick in his mouth. The stifled moan that Warrick makes is more than enough indication of what the hell they're doing.

But I will not give them the pleasure of more noises from me. I've come this far, but I'm not ready to let everything go. I can't. Not yet.

Still, I tell myself that they're doing this for me, to get me needy and wanting and hard, hard enough that they can take me to the next level.

Their attention shifts: I don't know if it's not soon enough or too soon. My cock and balls are now mercilessly strapped together -- I won't come until they're good and ready, or until I break and start to plead.

Warrick isn't gentle as he prepares me, the rough stretch making me more ready than soothing touches would. He almost draws a moan from me when he pushes in. The hard scratch of his dick does make me tense for a moment, before I'm pushing back, wanting more, wanting it hard, wanting Warrick to drive everything else from my head.

But Warrick has other ideas. He takes it slow, easy after that initial thrust, dancing with his hips, making me follow his rhythm. I'm still fighting, still wanting too much control.

Then I feel another weight on the bed. Nick's come to join us. I hear more sloppy kisses before I feel pressure on either side of my torso, followed by something warm and wet pressing at my lips.

I open widely, happy to take him in. Nick and Warrick aren't synchronized; they fuck my mouth and my ass to the pulse of their own songs. They pause, now and again, to kiss each other. I can feel Nick leaning back, Warrick leaning forward, as they take their pleasure with me, with each other. I can't get lost in them but I am slowing down, my thoughts no longer racing.

Finally Warrick starts into a faster rhythm. He angles my hips so that he's brushing across my prostrate with every stroke. I'm tossing my head but still refusing to speak. I can hear his panting breaths, the words he struggles to give to Nick, telling him how beautiful his boy is, how the muscles in his back are shining and how he wants to trace them with his tongue. They're still ignoring me, using me, beating down my sense of self.

Working to break me.

Warrick finally comes and Nick pulls out, unfinished. I'm not sure what's going to happen next. My legs fall back together, my thighs aching with how they've been stretched. I hear kissing, then softer words I can't make out.

Warm hands are now on my thighs, pulling my legs into a wider, more uncomfortable angle

A new cock slides into me.

"Oh, yeah, Warrick, you're right," Nick manages to grit out. "So good," he adds.

Nick is pushing harder into me, driving me onto the bed, thrusting with his hips and thighs, forcing the air out of me with each punishing jerk. Then he slows for a moment. I can hear him gulping air and kissing, and what might be the sound of Nick licking Warrick's stubbled chin. I want to touch them, I want to kiss them. I pull at the restraints but it's useless.

"Oh yeah, baby, just like that," Warrick says. I know he's touching Nick, gliding his fingers on Nick's sweat-slick pecs, maybe leaning down to tongue at a nipple. "You look so hot that way."

"You must like it," Nick manages to say after another moment. "You're getting hard again."

I don't think I make any noise, but I must have done something to garner their attention.

"He's st-st-stroking himself," Nick says, his song stuttered and caught up with his own thrusting body.

"Bet you'd like that Gil. Like for us to tag-team you all night," Warrick says in a husky whisper.

I don't quite groan at the image, but possibly I do give a quiet whimper at the thought of having to take the pair of them, over and over again, forced to be their toy and nothing else, submitting to them for hours, days. It burns out the other images in my head until it's the only thing left.

"Next time Nick? I think we should turn him over. Tie his legs wide too, so he can't do anything but take it."

Nick laughs -- not quite as evilly as Warrick can, but he's working on it. "And tag team him," he adds before he pulls me up and starts fucking me hard, his breath hitching, his cock seeming to grow wider, filling me more.

I can't help the moan that's dragged out of me as I truly start to give up.

Warrick's hand is suddenly at my nipple, pulling hard. "What's that? Can't quite hear you." He tugs at my cock, licks and tortures the sensitive skin, then he's gone.

"Please," I whisper, broken by the pounding in my ass, the sound of the pair of them kissing, the images they've put in my head for the next time.

It's enough. Warrick's there, a soft hand in my hair, breath puffing over my face. "What's that baby? You want to come?"

I nod, but I suspect it's too soon. I'm far from babbling yet.

"In a while," Warrick replies, and his cock is suddenly pushing against my lips. I make his cock wet and sticky while Nick rides. I'm losing breath and air, I can't move, can't come, can't think, can't do anything but _be_ with them, be a part of them. Nothing exists outside of them and this room and the way my ass is being filled like the way my mouth is and the remnant sparks from how Warrick pulls my nipples.

With a final shuddering thrust Nicky freezes as he comes, collapsing on top of me while his cock continues to twitch inside of me. Warrick pulls out and kisses Nick, who finally, _finally,_ kisses me. I'm lost in his taste, his touch.

Then Warrick fills me again. I cry out, surprised and shattered.

"Please, god, please, let me come. Please. So hard. I need to. Please." As my song fills the room Nick leans over and kisses Warrick, kisses me, kisses my still bound cock.

"Well, I don't know," Nick drawls, his voice deep and sleepy. "'Rick? What do you think?"

"I think you should kiss the man again. Give me more incentive to finish."

Nick skims his hands over my sides. I'm too turned out to be ticklish -- it's as if all my nerve endings have migrated to my cock. Then Nick kisses me, again to a different rhythm than the one Warrick's using. He's slow and sweet and the disparity makes my head swim. It's as if I'm torn in two: two different people with two different sets of needs. I need Nicky's kisses like I need breath and soul, and I need Warrick pounding into me to keep my heart going, my blood racing -- both keep me alive.

When Warrick's ready he rips the cock ring off me. I shout as the denied blood flows back into my dick. Maybe two seconds later, I'm coming, and that action consumes my world, churning through my guts and coalescing in my balls and shooting out my cock.

It doesn't surprise me that the next thing I know I'm being coddled by my two lovers, my hands already released, my sight no longer blocked. I blame the lights for the tears in my eyes, though the scientist in me knows that I wasn't in the dark that long, that it's just part of the emotional release. No one says anything, though -- they just continue to hold me, pet me, cherish me.

It appears that I have a song too, like my night birds. A song that contains little beauty or hope, but one that Nick and Warrick seem to love, just the same.

{end}

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Petrarch  
> [2] Havelock Ellis  
> [3] Henry Kaiser  
> [4] Eric Berne  
> [5] Alfred Tennyson -- full quotation: Oh yet we trust that somehow good/Will be the final goal of ill.  
> [6] George Santayana  
> [7] William Blake -- "To see a world in a grain of sand/And heaven in a wild flower/Hold infinity in the palm of your hand/And eternity in an hour"  
> [8] Clarence Darrow


End file.
